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“Maybe both,” he says, unsure.
“In any case,” I go on briskly, trying to sound confident, “those requests for remittances are blackmail. Still, if I were in Los Angeles and Joy were here, I would send every dollar I had, hoping to get her out. Now I have to think about how to get the two of us out. I can’t be perceived as being rich, but I can’t be perceived as being poor either. I need to stay in Shanghai so I can wait for Z.G. and my daughter to return from wherever it is they’ve gone. I need coupons to live, and I also need to appear invisible while doing those things.”
But the police know about me, and in days the Overseas Chinese Affairs Commission will be familiar with me too. Quite apart from that, the last thing I want is to act like a widow by being invisible, a coward, or a victim. It’s against a Dragon’s nature to wait, but that’s all I can do. I need to be a wily, quiet, and cautious Dragon.
“You’re going to need a job,” Dun recommends.
“I told Superintendent Wu I wanted one. Maybe I could go to work with the dancing girls. They make pens modeled on the Parker 51.” I reel off the factory’s slogan, which the girls recite whenever they have a chance. “Catch up with Parker!”
“I have a better idea. You should become a paper collector.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“We have always had a reverence for lettered paper,” he explains, sounding professorial. “In the Song dynasty, Lettered Paper Society members collected paper with writing on it, burned it in special ceremonial fires, and then ritually stored the ashes. Every three years, members escorted the ashes to a river or to the ocean, where the ashes would be plunged to be reborn as new words and images. Do you remember the bamboo baskets that used to be on street corners here in Shanghai, where people could properly dispose of their lettered paper?”
I have a vague memory of those baskets, but my sister and I didn’t have an iota of reverence for lettered paper, considering that we modeled for advertisements, which were clearly lettered paper of the most commercial sort.
“What was once an honored profession,” Dun goes on, “is now little better than being a trash collector. Still, I think it will give you everything you need—anonymity, access to all corners of the city, obedience to the rules you’ve been told to follow, and a way to get coupons and keep busy until your daughter returns.”
Joy
OBSERVING AND LEARNING FROM REAL LIFE
IT’S STILL DARK when the roosters begin to crow. I stay in bed for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of songbirds, the creaking of the floorboards in the room next to mine as my father rises, and the people outside the villa calling morning greetings. With the wood slats on the floors, the sliding doors, and the thin walls, no secrets can be kept. I hear every footstep, snore, hack, sigh, and whisper. I get up and dress quickly in loose pants and a cotton shirt with a faded floral print—both soft from use and many washings, all gifts from Kumei. I run a comb through my hair. I wish it were long enough to braid like the other girls do in the village. Instead, I put a kerchief over my head and tie it at the back of my neck. I take a quick look in a small mirror. Others here have told me how much I look like my father and that we share many mannerisms, like the way I sometimes pinch my chin when I’m in thought or the way I raise my eyebrows in question. That might be so, but that doesn’t mean we’re alike. Anyway, at least I look more like a peasant than I did a month ago when I first got here.
I slide open the door and hurry through the corridors and courtyards to the kitchen. Kumei has already started the fire in the stove and water boils in the teapot. I pour some in a cup, take it outside to the trough, where I went the first night, and use the hot water to brush my teeth and wash my face.
How stupid I was back then! Washing my face and brushing my teeth with trough water seemed fun and adventurous, but I’d gotten sick as a dog and had spent the first few days in Green Dragon with a bad case of diarrhea and vomiting. I’d received little sympathy from Z.G.
“What did you expect?” he’d asked. “This is a village. These people probably only change the water every three or four days. And they probably use it to scrub their feet and a
rmpits too.”
That made me sick all over again. My inhibitions about using the nightstool—and within earshot of Z.G.—were completely gone by the time I fully recovered. But I’d learned, just as I’m learning every day. I now know that the carvings with the squirrel-and-grape pattern in the sitting room for the four bedrooms in this part of the compound symbolize the expectation of prosperity for future generations. The wooden screens covering the windows are carved in a lion’s pattern to show a person’s wealth. The mirror hanging above the main gate wards off evil spirits, while the dried fish tacked to the wall in the front courtyard is there because yu, the word for fish, sounds like abundance. The dried pig legs that hang in the front courtyard? They’re for eating. The odor of gasoline I smelled that first night? That’s how people spot-clean their soiled clothes when they don’t want to wash an entire garment by hand. The tree with flowers that look like sweet peas in the middle of the square? It’s called a scholar’s tree. Its blossoms have now turned into fruits that grow in long yellowish pods like strings of pearls. And when I got my period, Kumei showed me what women in the village do: wrap sand in a piece of cloth and wedge it in my underpants. These are just a few things I’ve learned.
I help Kumei carry the food and eating utensils to the villa’s dining room. Z.G. and Yong, the old woman who also lives in the villa, sit at the table with Ta-ming between them. Yong has bound feet, which are truly gruesome. They’re tiny, like miniature candy bars sticking out from beneath her pants. One morning when I came into the kitchen, she’d pulled up a pant leg to massage a thin white calf. There, behind her ankle, was this mound of scrunched flesh and bones—the parts of her foot that hadn’t been made dainty in her bound-foot shoe. Now I make a point of not looking at Yong’s feet. Because of this, I think she doesn’t like me. Or maybe she thinks I don’t like her. Whatever it is, we’ve barely spoken.
Today’s breakfast is rice porridge, hard-boiled eggs, pickled turnip, and dumplings made with rice flour dyed green with a local water plant and stuffed with spicy vegetables and salted pork. It’s all delicious, but I don’t eat more than my share. I dip my spoon into my porridge and listen to Kumei and Yong. I’ve picked up the nuances of the local dialect and have gotten much better at speaking it.
I’m happy that Z.G. and I were sent to live with Kumei. She’s become a good friend, even though we’re still strangers in many ways. How did she get her scars? Why does she live in the villa? Who was her husband? I’ve been dying to ask these questions, but I don’t want to appear nosy. I’ve made up a story in my mind though. Kumei probably married a soldier when he passed through this area. He must have died during Liberation. Since her husband was a hero, the villagers allowed her to live in the villa, where she cares for her son and Yong, another widow, because, in the New Society, the villa has been converted to a home for widows. Maybe none of this is true, but I like the story. And I like Kumei. Her name means Bitter Sister, but she doesn’t seem bitter to me. She’s illiterate, but she hasn’t let the burdens of the past hinder her. She goes to classes in the afternoon, along with many other peasants, to be educated.
Kumei leaves her son with Yong, and the two of us set out for the fields. Z.G. stays behind in the villa. I came a long way to meet him and it’s already been a month, but he’s an enigma. He hasn’t asked much about May or even me, and I haven’t asked much about him, even though I’d like to know him better. I’m shy around him and unsure what to say. Maybe he’s shy too. Or maybe he’s unused to having a daughter. Maybe he can never feel about me the way my father Sam felt.
It’s the end of September. The air is still warm, but not as oppressive as it was when I first got here. We walk past paddies, where the rice stalks have browned. Then we begin to climb the short hill across from the villa. I keep my head down, pretending to watch for ruts or rocks in the path, while glancing surreptitiously up the hill to Tao’s house. It looks like many of the other houses—small, built from blocks of some sort, and covered with mud—except that it’s the only one angled north. The windows are just openings, as in the villa. The tile roof is low and crooked. Some rocks form a little retaining wall, creating a small terrace just outside the front door. An outdoor wood-burning stove is built onto one of the exterior walls, which can’t make it easy for Tao’s mother to cook when it rains. A wooden ladder with broken rungs lies askew on the ground, but no one has bothered to right it since I arrived. In the villa, the dried fish and pig legs hang protected in the first courtyard; here they’re haphazardly tacked on an outside wall just high enough to keep them safe from dogs and rodents. Laundry drips on a line: Tao’s undershirts, his father’s baggy pants, his mother’s dark tunics, his eight little brothers’ and sisters’ clothes. To me, the house looks very country and very romantic. My mother would be appalled, calling it a pathetic shack.
“Tao was born in the Year of the Dog,” Kumei volunteers, noticing the way I’m staring at the house. “Everyone knows the Dog and the Tiger make an ideal love match.”
“I’m not looking for a love match—”
“No, of course not. Not you. That’s why we have to walk up here every morning at the exact same time. You don’t want to see anyone in particular.”
“I don’t.”
But I do. If May could give me up so easily and if Z.G. doesn’t want to know me, then maybe Tao … Maybe I might still be worthy of love …
“Everyone likes a Dog,” Kumei continues. “A Dog knows how to get along with others and how to lick their hands. He’s loyal, even if the master is his wife. He’s good at rescuing, as everyone knows. Do you need rescuing?”
If she only knew.
